Bright Eyes Hide Dark Secrets
by ladyofbooks
Summary: When 10-year old Lucy Ferrier's parents are killed in a car crash, her life becomes intertwined with that of Sherlock Holmes. Then, she discovers a shocking secret about her past that could shatter her new-found family. Rated T to be safe. Read and enjoy! Possible Johnlock (not sure at this point).
1. Prologue

Prologue

_Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. If I did, there would already be season 4. * sighs * Come on, Gatiss +Moffat!_

I lean back against the car seat with a contented sigh. The day has been wonderful – a long afternoon at Kensington Palace, with dinner out afterwards. Now, the sun lies sleepily over the buildings of London, as my dad drives us. My mum is sat next to him, and the two of them are both talking quietly. The sound of their quiet conversation soothes me, and I am about to close my eyes when I spot another car careering towards us – _too fast, too fast! _

Instantly, I move into the brace position. The other car crashes into us, shattering the windscreen. Then, we start to roll, over and over, and I can't help but scream in terrible, blind panic. Then, the car comes to a stop, on its side. At this point, I am a sobbing mess, but I force myself to _breathe_, to remember that I'm _safe_; I'm _alive_, somehow. I hear police sirens, and I yell out for help. I yell and yell and yell, and then there are strong arms lifting me out of the wreckage. They carry me over to an ambulance, and wrap an orange blanket around me.

I look out at the battered car, seeing, for the first time, how awful it looks. The front bonnet is crumpled, and the windscreen lies in many pieces on the pavement. I wonder how I lived though that. There are people pulling two twisted bodies out of the car. It is a heartbeat before the realization hits me – Mum and Dad.

_No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No!_

I scream it over and over, and cry even louder than before. A woman with frizzy dark hair, nut–brown skin and a kind expression kneels next to me. "Hey, hey. Sh." She moves her arms around me. "I'm Sergeant Donovan." she says gently. "Can you tell me your name, sweetheart?"

"Lucy." I whisper. "Lucy Ferrier."

"Okay, Lucy. Just let it out. Cry all you want."

I burrow my head into her shoulder and sob. Her arms are so soft, so warm, and I'm so, so tired. I allow the blackness flickering at the edge of my vision to claim me, and I sink into the blissful ignorance of sleep.

_**A/N: Well, hello. It's nice to meet you, reader. ;-) I should probably point out tat all my stories take place in the same universe as each other, unless I explicitly state otherwise. Make a note of that for future reference. This is my second FanFic, and it will definitely be longer than the first. That's pretty much all I have to say. Please review; follow/favorite (I would dearly love to know that **__**someone**__** out there is reading my stories) and I will hopefully see you next time for Chapter 1. Till then, byesie bye!**_


	2. At St Bart's

Chapter 1

At St Bart's

_Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. Unfortunately._

Sherlock sighed irritably. _Not again! _For the second time in three weeks, Molly had locked him out of the lab. He had experiments to do! He did not want to have to spend ages waiting for her to come back from whatever she had been doing. Usually, Sherlock would have his key to the lab, but he had dropped in a pot of hydrochloric acid (although, in fairness, it was not his fault. John had startled him!). He was bored because he hadn't had a case in weeks, and all his 'supplies' had ben purged from the flat. So, that left only one thing (seeing as, apparently, people did not like it when he shot at the wall)- experiments at Bart's. John had not come to visit, having been so busy with Mary and the baby.

_The baby. _A memory surfaced, a fairly recent one, from a small, new room in his Mind Palace.

_His phone rang, an insistent blare though the silent flat. He tried to ignore it, but the noise corkscrewed right to the middle of his thoughts, and he opened his eyes with a sigh. He had been trying to solve a particularly difficult case, one involving a set of murders, all obviously committed by a serial killer, but he couldn't find the thing that linked them all, and it was really praying on his mind. He picked up his phone._

"_Sherlock Holmes speaking."_

"_Sherlock, it's John." Sherlock's heart missed a beat. His mind instantly spiraled in many directions, trying to work out why John would be calling. His mind arrived at the most likely conclusion in the shortest of moments._

"_Mary's gone into labor." the two of them said simultaneously._

"_Wait, what?" John said. He let out a sigh. "Never mind. Mary and I want you to come to the hospital with us."_

_Sherlock frowned. "Why?"_

_John laughed incredulously. "__**Why**__? Sherlock, you've been a part of this baby's life since before I even knew Mary was pregnant. We all want you to be here. And even if you don't want to come I will drag you over here, so help me."_

_Sherlock felt something stirring inside him. It took a second before he realized it for what it was – love. Pure, deep and unrequited love. For John, for Mary, and for this new baby. And something else too, something deeper for John. But he banished that for the moment. This was no time to confront__** that**__ feeling. _

"_I'm coming."_

_Mary's labor was surprisingly quick, lasting only an hour. By the time Sherlock had got to the hospital, she was already in the later stages. Sherlock had hovered by the door of the delivery room, unsure if he should wait outside or go in. Then John had stuck his head around the door, and spied him. "Come on in. You might be able to help." He said, grinning. Sherlock walked in, where there were three midwives hovering around Mary. She was wearing a white and blue spotted hospital gown, and making small grunting noises as she lay on the delivery table. _

"_Sherlock, could you sit with Mary and hold her hand. I'm on her other side." John said. Sherlock went and sat next to Mary, taking her hand. _

"_Don't worry, Mary. You're in the later stages of labor, and the baby is nearly here." He said, emotionlessly, just reciting one of the 'praise phases' he had been reading up on. _

"_Sherlock," Mary growled between grunts. "if you are going to praise me, the very least you could do is PUT SOME EMOTION INTO IT!" The last part came out as a yell because a particularly painful contraction had hit. John smiled apologetically at Sherlock, who looked slightly wounded. Mary's expression softened slightly. "Sherlock, I want to hear you talk about something with true passion. Tell me about your latest case." She said gently, then winced as another contraction hit. Sherlock looked slightly bemused, but he proceeded to talk in great detail about the case. His eyes lit up as he spoke, and he moved his hands in dramatic gestures. Mary listened, enthralled, and John listened too, on and off, when he wasn't constantly asking Mary how she was doing. It was not very long until… _

"_I can see the baby's head!" a midwife cried._

_John and Sherlock simultaneously tensed. Mary let out a cry as she pushed with all of her might. Then, suddenly, there was a small, mewling noise. The midwife lifted out a tiny little bundle of pink skin and blood. A baby. John and Mary's baby. "Do you want to cut the cord?" A second midwife asked._

_John took the scissors, and snipped the thread connecting his wife and his newborn daughter, before taking the infant tenderly in his arms. She was still slimy and crying, but in John's eyes, she was perfect. Mary held out her arms, and John moved over to her, letting the little girl find her mother for the first time. The infant quieted and snuggled into her mother. John and Mary both beamed down at their little girl. _

_Sherlock felt like an intruder in this happy family, so he decided to move towards the door. He was halfway there until John looked up and spotted him retreating. "Oh no, you aren't getting away from me that easily, Sherlock Holmes." He said jokingly. "Come here." Sherlock had no choice but to move over to him. Gently, John moved the baby out of Mary's arms. She didn't complain, but looked up at Sherlock as John placed his daughter in the arms of his best friend. Sherlock looked down at the baby. She had a mess of golden blonde tufts on her little head, and she had eyes the exact colour of John's. Sherlock looked down at her as she nuzzled happily into his shirt. A question formed on his lips. "What are you naming her?"_

_John grinned even wider at that. He and Mary both looked like twin Cheshire cats. _

"_Her name," he said," is Willow Scarlett Sherlock Watson."_

_Sherlock looked a John, trying to conjure up words to say – a happy exclamation, or a snarky response along the lines of 'I knew it!' But nothing came. For the seccond time in his life, he was speechless. He looked to John, then to Mary, then back again. Then, a response finally came to him. _

"_She is the most wonderful miracle I have ever seen."_

The memory cleared from Sherlock's head, and he was not very surprised to find that, while he had been reliving that day, he had walked to the regular area of St Bart's. Generally, when he was reliving memories, he would start in one place and end up somewhere completely different. Once, while reliving a particularly long memory, he had ended up walking from a warehouse in North London to another warehouse in South London. He was outside a small, private room, between the main adult ward and the main children's room. The room number was on the door -22. He was about to turn around and go back to the morgue to see if Molly had arrived, when he heard something. A quiet yelp, and then soft, muffled crying. It was the sort of heartbroken sound that was made by someone who had suffered terrible things. He had made similar noises himself, during those two years when the world believed him dead. The sound cut into him, reminding him of those dark and awful times. Curiosity, and sympathy, pulled him towards the door. He placed his and on the doorknob, and the door swung open.

From a hospital bed, a young girl, no more than ten years old, with straight brown hair, looked up at him with scared, sad eyes the colour of chocolate.

_**A/N: And so it begins…and I leave you with a cliffhanger. Sorry. :P **_

_**Please review/follow/favorite, and I will see you next time for Chapter 2!**_

_**16magnolias – Thank you for being my first reviewer! I'm sorry to hear that you were in a car crash, but I'm glad no one was hurt. I absolutely agree with what you said about Donovan. She gets too much bad press! I thought it only right that she be the one to comfort Lucy, seeing as she does a similar thing in Reichenbach Fall.**_


	3. Are you a wizard?

Chapter 2

Are you a wizard?

_Disclaimer: I still do not own Sherlock. * sighs * One day…_

_Lucy's POV_

_Too fast, too fast!_

_No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No!_

_Mum and Dad…mangled bodies._

_And far away, detached from everything, screaming._

I wake up with a yelp and start crying again. Really, I have done nothing but cry since two days ago. I don't know what else to do. Everything is hard, harder than it used to be. Eating is mostly forgotten, but when I do eat, I am spoon-fed. I have sunk into what Mum would have called "an endless abyss". I'm still not sure what that means. I wish I had asked her. Thinking about Mum makes me cry harder, and I bury my face in the hospital duvet, which smells awful.

Then I hear the sound of the door to my room (which doesn't feel like mine, doesn't smell like mine) opening. I look up, afraid that it's another doctor come to ask me if I'm okay. I know I'm not, and want to tell each doctor that. But speaking is too hard. It's easier just to nod, to pretend I'm unbroken, when I know (and they know) that I will never again be _okay_.

It's not a doctor, like I thought. It's a man, tall and lean, with eyes like stormy oceans, and hair like swirling black clouds. A tempestuous man (a word I learnt from Dad). He looks at me, and I look back. A question leaps out of me-the first words I've spoken since the crash.

"Are you a wizard?" He looks surprised. "I mean, you look magic. Like you know many secret and clever things." The words tumble out of me quickly (having been holed up so long, I guess they were eager to get out).

"No, I'm not a wizard." He says, looking confused.

"Oh." I say, disappointed. "I'm sorry for asking. I've just always wanted to meet a wizard, even though Dad says they aren't real. I don't believe him."

"You _didn't_ believe him. Past tense. Your parents are dead." He says, matter-of-factly.

_Dead._ Somehow, hearing the word makes it more real. That I will never see them again. The tears well up inside my eyes. The man sees this, and hurriedly picks up the box of tissues on the table by the door. He brings them over to me and I gratefully take one and mop my eyes. He sits down carefully on the end of the bed, and waits for me to finish. I sniff a bit into the tissue, before scrunching it up, and tossing it at the bin in the far right corner of the room. It lands perfectly, and I smile slightly in satisfaction, my first smile since everything.

"Good shot." The man remarks.

"Thank you." I say. Then I realize something. "I don't know your name."

"I don't know yours either. But I do know that you were recently orphaned, you're an only child, you like books, you come from Westminster and your parents were fairly well off."

I look at him, wide-eyed. "Wow!" I narrow my eyes. "Are you_ sure_ you're not a wizard?"

"Quite." He said. Then he gives me a curious glance. "What can you tell me about myself?"

I take him in in full. "Well…" I begin, unsure at first. "You are a bit of a social outcast, you're a scientist, err… Your family are fairly well off, but you don't rely on them aaaannd…that's it I think. No, wait. You're also lonely."

He stares at me closely, as though I am some complicated puzzle. "What _is_ your name?" he asks.

"I'll tell you if you tell me yours." I say, folding my arms.

A smile flickers at the corners of his mouth. "I'm Sherlock Holmes." He puts out his hand.

"Lucy Ferrier." I shake his hand seriously, and then I giggle, the first time I've laughed since the crash. He looks confused. "Why is shaking my hand funny?" he asks, frowning.

"It's just funny. Nobody has ever shaken my hand before."

"Then you should probably get used to it. Adults like to shake people's hands."

"Why?"

"I don't know. I'll ask one."

"But…you're an adult." I tilt my head on one side.

"Only technically."

I smile again. Then I wonder how this man I hardly know has managed to make me smile twice, and _laugh_. Doctors and nurses have tried and failed, and this man-Sherlock Holmes-does it effortlessly. I don't know how. He stands up and moves towards the door.

"Wait." I cry out.

He turns.

"Will you come and see me again, Mr. Holmes?"

He is quiet for a moment.

"Yes, of course." He smiles a true smile. And I grin back at him.

* * *

3rd person POV

"Absolutely not."

Mycroft sat at his desk in his office at Diogenes. He glanced at Sherlock over the papers he was holding.

"But Mycroft!" Sherlock leant forward on his brother's desk. "She is talented! If idiots adopt her, she might never hone the skills she has! I do not want a human being to go to waste. " he added forcefully, glaring at Mycroft.

Mycroft studied Sherlock's face. Then he sighed. "How many times do I have to tell you Sherlock? Caring is not an advantage. It never has been, and it never will be."

"I don't care about _her_. I care about the general intelligence of humanity." Sherlock said, glaring at his brother again. He liked to glare at Mycroft – it conveyed all his contempt without him having to put it into words. "Look, Mycroft, I will cut off your cake supply if you don't let me do this."

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "You do not have that sort of power, Sherlock."

"Hmm, true enough, but I do know how to forge your signature." Sherlock gazed back at his brother with a mild smile.

Mycroft picked up the phone. "Anthea, can you get me the adoption paperwork for Lucy Ferrier?"

* * *

Lucy's POV

I eagerly wait for visiting hours, because that's when Sherlock comes. He's been coming to see me for the last week. Every day, we talk about something different. Yesterday, for example, he was telling me about an experiment he had been doing that involved a mummified foot and a tin of baked beans…it sounded fascinating. He also told me more about his work as a Consulting Detective. I like hearing about his cases. He always tells me to try and solve them before he gets to the end. I'm doing quite well so far. He fascinates me. I've never met another adult like him.

I hear the sound of the door opening, and I look up. Sherlock steps into the room, carrying a suitcase and a folder full of paperwork. That surprises me- I've never seen Sherlock carrying paperwork before. Then again, I've only known him for a week, though it feels like I've known him forever. It's strange. Without the accident happening I would never have met him. Mum would have said 'That's the way the world works.' It still hurts, thinking about Mum and Dad. I try not to. It opens this black hole inside me, and I feel alone and lost.

Sherlock looks down at me, his rare, real smile flaring at the corners of his mouth. I smile back at him. "Why have you got paperwork?"

"Why do _you_ think I've got paperwork?"

I frown for a moment. _Paperwork, Suitcase… _"Oh!" I let the sound out very softly. Tears –not tears of sadness, but tears of joy, and nerves, and so many other emotions well up inside of me, and I can't find the words to express anything.

"I'm coming…you're…" the words stutter out of me, making no sense. He understands, though he always does. He understands everything. Except emotions, which was probably why he looks so uncomfortable. "Yes", he says, slightly awkwardly. "But only if you want to."

I throw my arms around him, and he stumbles back a tiny step, arms out flailing a bit. I bury my face in his shirt. It feels soft and warm, and smells like tea. With the uncertainty of a scientist tampering with an unknown and potentially dangerous element, he moves his arms around me. We stay like this for a long time, until I reluctantly pull away from him. "You..erm…should get dressed." He says, still obviously unsure of how to feel. I nod yes, still unable to speak.

"I'll be outside." He moves out of the door, and closes it behind him. I sit on the bed, still stunned. Worries cascade over me. _What if it all goes wrong? I don't want to be alone…I __**can't**__ be alone, I just can't._ Then I remember something I read in a book, long before all this: _Fortune favors the bold_. I must be brave – if I'm not, I might let this maybe happiness go forever. Silently I take the clothes at the end of my bed, and pull them on, after taking off my hated hospital pyjamas. I glance around my hospital room, trying to find some kind of emotion, a goodbye to my old life, forever. A kind of want lurks inside, but I push it back. My life is different now. I don't belong in the past – I belong in the here and now, with Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

_**A/N: Well, that was fun to write. :-) Sorry it took so long to get out -I've been very busy! Also, I can Now do separating lines! Yay!  
**_

_**Thanks to Lifeisnowhere-182 and 16magnolias for your kind reviews!**_

_**See you all next chapter. Please review/follow/favorite; they are what keep me inspired! **_


	4. Welcome to 221b Baker Street

Chapter 3

Welcome to 221b Baker Street

I practically leap out of the cab as it stops in front of my new home. In front of me looms a large, black door, with an elegant knocker, slightly askew. '221b' stares at me, glinting golden in the sunlight. I stand, rooted to the spot for a moment in nervousness. Sherlock makes his way past me, and pushes open the door. He takes a step in, then turns around when he realizes that I'm not following. "Come on. We haven't got all day, you know." he says impatiently. I unfreeze and walk towards the door. I step into a hallway, with a staircase to my left, and a door to my right. "Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock calls. Mrs. Hudson…his landlady. He mentioned her a few times while we were talking.

An elderly woman stands in the doorway to my right, looking at me with a bemused and inquisitive expression. "Sherlock…" she asked, confusedly. "Who…"

"Mrs. Hudson, this is Lucy Ferrier, my recently adopted daughter." Sherlock said briskly.

Mrs. Hudson's eyes widen, and then she smiles. She positively beams, her eyes shining. "Sherlock, this is wonderful!"

Sherlock looks slightly nervous at Mrs. Hudson's displays of emotions. I decide to ease his nervousness a little bit by formally introducing myself to Mrs. Hudson, because she looks about ready to hug Sherlock, and I know for a fact that he will not be as lenient with her as he was with me.

"Hello." I say quietly, stepping towards her.

She bends down slightly to come eye to eye with me, and then gives me a big hug. "Hello, dear. It's lovely to meet you." Then she looks up at Sherlock. "Where will she be sleeping?"

This is a good point. I hadn't thought of that fact.

"I was thinking she could take John's old room. If that's okay."

"Of course it is, dear."

"Excellent." Sherlock looks at me. "Lucy, come with me."

He hurries up the stairs, and I follow him eagerly. We speed up two flights before he comes to a halt. "Here." He pushes open the door, and I step inside a plain and simple room. It looks as though it hasn't been lived in for a while. Sherlock sets down the suitcase containing my things in the middle of the room. "I'll leave you to unpack." he says.

He turns and strides briskly out of the room, without a backward glance. I walk towards the bed and sit down. I wonder about the man who lived in this room, before I did. John Watson. Sherlock didn't mention him a lot, but I know that the two of them were best friends. Or maybe they still are. I don't know. I get up of the bed, go to the suitcase, and begin to unpack.

Sherlock's POV

Lucy Ferrier. My daughter. The word is foreign to me, unknown. A lot like her. Unknown. A wild card, an anomaly. She is one of the two people who has managed to worm their way into my heart. Whatever Sergeant Donovan says, I do have one. But it scares me. The feeling of sentiment.

Love.

Love is one of those things I don't think I can ever completely understand. Sure, The chemistry is very simple, but feelings, emotions, are a lot harder. _Caring is not an advantage. _Mycroft drummed this into my head from a very young age. But still, sometimes, human instinct takes over. My heart opens, and I am overwhelmed. And afraid. Everything cascades over me at once, and things go wrong. The last time I let emotions control me, I killed a man. This time, I've adopted a girl. An extraordinarily intelligent girl, with wisdom beyond her years. Who knows what will happen next.

Lucy's POV

I walk down and open the door to the living area of the flat. Sherlock is sat in an armchair by the fireplace. I take a moment to look around the flat – my home, now. It is different to my home before, but in in a good way. I quite like it. Then I take a closer look at the mantelpiece.

"Is that a skull?"

"Yes." Sherlock regarded me with a _look_. "Honestly. Don't you know basic biology?"

"Of course." I say, slightly insulted. I wonder, for a moment, how Sherlock got a skull. But I get the feeling that I probably won't want to hear the answer. I cross over to the armchair opposite Sherlock, and flop down. He tenses. "What?" I ask.

He hesitates. "Nothing."

"Are you sure?"

He looks at me in the chair again, almost sadly. "Yes."

I look at him, and then he sighs. It is quiet for a while.

"It was where John sat, when he lived here. If you really want to know." he blurts.

I get up and sit on the floor. "Then I won't sit there. It can stay his."

Sherlock stares at me. He looks so surprised, it's almost funny.

"What was he like? John, I mean." I ask.

"He was a doctor in the army, invalided out of Afghanistan with a wound in the shoulder when I met him." He spoke matter-of-factly. "He came into Bart's morgue, and the very first thing he did was offer me his phone. Next day, we had moved in with each other and we were solving crimes together."

"That was fast." I remark.

"Yes." He smirks at me, and I grin back. Then, we both burst out laughing simultaneously for absolutely no reason, other than the fact it feels good. We laugh and laugh, until we hear a knock at the door. We both freeze instantly. "Sherlock! It's John."

Sherlock cursed under his breath. I couldn't hear it completely, but I'm still shocked (Sherlock, swearing!). He hurried to the door and thrust it open.

A short man with grey-blonde hair and a woolly brown jumper + jeans stood in the doorway, holding a baby in his arms. "Hey, Sherlock, I thought I'd visit with Willow." The man –John- spoke in a free, open way with Sherlock. He jiggled the baby gently up and down. Sherlock hesitated a moment, then waved John in.

John was halfway in the room before he noticed me, and stopped short. "Sherlock, who is this?" he said, scarily calm.

"Oh, John, this is Lucy, my daughter."

"Your daughter?!" The look on John's face was comical.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes, John. Why else would I have a child in the flat?" John opened his mouth to retort, but Sherlock got there first. "Don't answer that."

"You…actually…" John coughed. I don't understand what it means, but Sherlock looks scandalized, then embarrassed. "NO!" he yells, far to loudly.

I salvage the situation. "I'm adopted."

John looks half relived, half shocked. "I need to sit down." He flops down into his chair with such familiarity, it is strange to me. Sherlock sat down in his chair with slightly more grace. The two regard each other carefully. I feel like I could cut the tension with an imaginary knife.

It's a long moment before anybody speaks. Then, John practically jumps up. "I can't stand this! I'm making tea. Can you hold Willow?"

Sherlock tries to stutter out a protest, but John gently places the baby –Willow- into his arms. "She's not a nuclear bomb, Sherlock! Holding her won't kill you!" Sherlock almost protests again, but then Willow coos softly. His expression softens slightly, and he settles into a more comfortable position. John looks both satisfied and triumphant, and bustles off to make the tea. I crawl over to Sherlock's armchair to get a better look at the tiny baby. I take in her mop of pale blonde hair, her bright, surprisingly intelligent blue eyes, and her minute fingers. "She's gorgeous." I breathe.

Sherlock smiles a little wider.

"Why, thank you." says John, as he comes back towards the armchairs with two steaming mugs of tea. I giggle, as Sherlock looks affronted. "Yes Sherlock, besotted as you are with her, she is not your daughter. Although," he added, as Sherlock looked even more offended, "if you carry on like this, she might as well be. She's even named after you, for God's sake." I look confused for a moment, so he elaborates. "This idiot's full name is William Sherlock Scott Holmes, and the gorgeous little girl in his arms is named Willow Scarlett Sherlock Watson."

"Ohhhhh." I say, and then grin. "That makes sense."

Sherlock glares at John. "I am not an idiot; I am the complete opposite of an idiot."

John coughs. "Ninety-nine percent of the time."

Sherlock looks half ready to strangle John, so I say quickly "Can I hold her?"

John smiles. "Of course." He goes over to Sherlock and pries Willow out of his arms. She lets out a short cry, and squirms a little. "Hey, hey." John whispers, as he bounces her up and down. "Shh." He gently bends down and helps get her comfy in my arms. When we've found a good position, he stands up and gets back into his chair.

I've never held a baby before - being an only child, I've never had any younger siblings to fawn over. Holding Willow feels strangely _nice_, _comforting_, even. I lose track of time as I coo over her and pull faces to make her giggle. It seems like only a few minutes (but in fact it is much longer) before John sighs and says "I had better get home to Mary." Reluctantly, I let him take Willow from me.

"Well," John smiles, fussing over Willow, "it was lovely to meet you, Lucy."

"It was lovely to meet you too." I say.

"Thanks. See you soon, Sherlock." John calls, as he opens the door and hurries down the stairs.

I close the door behind him, and turn to look at Sherlock. "I like him. I'd like to meet Mary too, someday."

Sherlock shrugs. "You'll definitely meet her soon, if John's 'social calls' turn out to be a regular occurrence – which, judging by his manner, is what he hopes." He mutters under his breath darkly - something along the lines of 'not a child anymore' and 'haven't taken anything since the last time they caught me!' I don't know what this means, and I don't ask. I glance over at the window. "It's getting dark outside. I should probably go to bed." Sherlock only goes "Mmmm." in response. He has settled into an odd position, leaning back in his chair with his hands pressed together, as if he's praying, but I somehow know he's not. "Sherlock?" I ask quietly. He doesn't respond. I sigh quietly, and go upstairs to bed without an answer.

3rd person POV

James Moriarty leaned back in his plush office chair, beaming psychotically. "Oh, Sherlock. You still manage to surprise me. And yet, I've got the upper hand. I will finally get to burn your heart, with the help of my little trap." He dissolved into a fit of mad, awful laughter.

_**A/N: Hello again. (smiley face). It's been a while, but this chapter took longer to write than I had anticipated. Also, I'm going away on holiday, so I probably won't get to update until I get back. **_

_**Thanks to Kura06 for spotting my typo, and thanks to 16magnolias for reviewing once more!**_

_**I hope you all enjoyed reading, and I will see you next time!**_


	5. Musical Cases

Chapter 4

Musical Cases

_**Disclaimer: As ever, I do not own Sherlock. I also don't own Star Trek. (If you get the quote, internet cookies to you)!**_

* * *

Lucy's POV

The familiar nightmare wakes me up again. It just comes on so relentlessly; I'm done fighting it. I just wait for my sweating body to cool down dry, and my racing heart to slow. As I calm down, the sound of violin music floats into my ears. I freeze for a moment, all my fear draining out of me. Violin music has always been soothing to me – my parents both had a great love of music, though neither of them played. I tried to learn violin when I was young, but I had an awful teacher, who would scream at me every time I played wrong. I came home in tears so many times, my parents stopped the lessons. But, I still harbor a passion for the sound of a violin.

I wonder who is playing. Carefully, I push my sheets away, and climb out of bed. I move softly down the stairs. _Please don't creak, please don't creak_. I put my foot down, and the quietest of creaks sounds. I tense for a moment, but nothing happens. I continue down the staircase. When I get down to the main floor of 221b, I realize that the sound is coming from inside. I push open the door, and see that it's _Sherlock _playing the violin so beautifully.

He stands, silhouetted against the window, all tall dark shadow and curly hair. He's wearing a pair of pajama bottoms, an old shirt, and a silky brown dressing gown. I step into the room, pushing the door silently shut behind me. As Sherlock moves the bow across the violin, I'm struck by how natural he makes playing look. It seems to be as natural as breathing to him. The piece he's playing isn't one I recognize. It's beautiful, though. It soars and swoops, sounding joyously happy. I sway slightly to the tune. Sherlock turns around to face me, without a break in the music. I see that his eyes are closed - he hasn't noticed me, I think at first, and then he speaks softly.

"I didn't peg you down as a music lover."

I'm only slightly surprised that he knows I'm there without seeing me. It seems I'm getting used to him.

"I've always loved music. So did Mum and Dad…" I feel sad at that, and try to banish the thoughts - they hurt.

"You used to play, didn't you?" he says. It's more of a statement than a question.

"Yes. How did you know?'

"The way you were eyeing my violin. It was fairly obvious that you were aching to play it."

I smile and then glance back at his violin. It's true, I am aching to play it, but he probably won't let me. "I did play, but I had a horrid teacher. So," I continued, shrugging, "I stopped."

"Well," he began. "we can't have that. Come." He says, beckoning me over. He removes the violin from his own chin and attempts to place it under mine, but I back away. "I can't."

"Why?" The word is raw and simple, but I can't answer the question in it.

"It's just…I don't know. You've been so nice to me, so kind, and I know it's not exactly something that you're used to."_ And I feel like this is all a dream, only all the dreams I've been having are nightmares, so if this is a dream, then it might be the start of a nightmare. _"And…I don't want you to feel like you have to do everything for me to make me happy. I'm not John."

Sherlock visibly blanches, and I know I've gone too far.

"I'm not asking you to be John. I'm asking you to be Lucy Violet Ferrier, the person you've always been. And right now, we both know you want to play the violin. Why deny yourself a simple pleasure?" he says, shortly. I realize that I'm being silly, and carefully take the violin from him. He helps me get into position – I'm a little rusty. His hands are careful, and they guide me into the right position with practiced ease. "Do you know any scales?"

"So many, I've lost count." I smile slightly.

"Well, delete all of those." he says with a wave of his hand.

"Why?"

"Not important. To play well, you only need to be able to read music, have good natural rhythm and poise, and a good teacher. You have all of that. Therefore, you should not have any problems."

I try to conceal the smile forming on my face at his compliments.

"Now. Shall we begin?"

Time passes as Sherlock and I practice. He takes me through many different pieces, some that I recognize, some I don't, and some that I can see he's composed himself. The ones he's composed himself are the most beautiful ones. They capture many different emotions, emotions I'm fairly sure he doesn't tell anyone about. I feel that, by playing his pieces, I can understand him even more than if I had known him all my life.

We are suddenly interrupted by the sound of Sherlock's phone going off. He sighs, and picks it up, placing it to his ear.

"Lestrade."

The Detective Inspector who helps Sherlock get his cases. Sherlock only mentioned him briefly, but I guessed that he and Sherlock are good friends. They must be, if Lestrade hasn't banned Sherlock from Scotland Yard by now.

"Sherlock, I've got a case for you. I think you'll like it."

"Hm. Give me some details."

"Miss Amilie Grace disappeared yesterday afternoon, and we've found her body. But we can't figure out how she died. It would be great if you could help us." Sherlock seems to be weighing up the case. He makes up his mind quickly. "I'll be there. Do not touch anything."

Sherlock presses the End button. I look up at him eagerly. "Can I come?"

He cocks his head to one side. "Mmmm…Yes, I don't see why not."

I grin from ear to ear. _I'm finally going to get to go on a case!_

Sherlock sees this and remarks excitedly "The Game is on, Lucy!"

* * *

3rd person POV

Gregory Lestrade had known Sherlock Holmes for many years. He was pretty sure that nothing the self-proclaimed 'Consulting Detective' could do would surprise him anymore (after all, he had managed to come back from the dead). He was, however, proved wrong when Sherlock walked onto a crime scene, bold as brass – with a little girl, no older than 10, in tow.

"Sherlock, you can't bring a minor onto a crime scene!"

"Why not?" asked Sherlock indignantly.

_Damn it, he will stop at nothing._ "You need the permission of her parent or guardian!"

"I'm her guardian. I give permission."

Greg did a double take. "What?! You're her…father?!"

"**Adopted** father. Please be sure on this point, as there was a somewhat uncomfortable scene when John found out, and I would like to avoid any similar scenes. Got all of that? Good." Sherlock spoke at a hundred miles an hour and ended his speech with a too wide smile, strolling confidently past the speechless D.I.

The small girl smiled shyly up at Greg, and his pained expression softened a little. He had always wanted children, but his wife hadn't, and so that dream had quickly faded away. However…looking at the little girl, it rekindled a hope in his heart.

"I'm Lucy Ferrier. You must be Detective Inspector Lestrade."

Greg shook himself out of his reverie.

"Please, call me Greg."

"Greg." She said slowly, trying it out.

"Lucy!" called Sherlock from inside.

She smiled apologetically up at Greg, and hurried after her adopted father.

Sargent Sally Donovan held a certain amount of respect for Sherlock Holmes. However many times she called him 'freak' she would not deny that she was just a tiny bit impressed every time he successfully solved a crime with his powers of deduction.

Then came 'the fall'. Sally, to her later shame, was instrumental in it. When she noticed something fishy about the Bruhl kidnapping case, and did her job investigating it. But, oh, how she whished she hadn't. For it all led up to the freak, a roof, and a broken John Watson.

And then the freak came back in all his glory, and Sally couldn't help but be pleased at the light that came back into John Watson's eyes (though there was no excuse for leaving him in the dark for so long). And so, she was pretty sure Sherlock Holmes was out of surprises – until he walked into a crime scene with a little girl that Sally _knew_ - though how Sherlock Holmes knew her was a complete mystery.

* * *

Lucy's POV

The crime scene (the first one I've ever seen!) is an abandoned house in Bethnal Green. The victims' body is spread-eagled on the floor, giving every impression of her having fallen a great height, but…

"Lucy, what do you think?' asked Sherlock, breaking in on my thoughts.

"She can't have died here." I say, immediately.

"My thoughts exactly." He replied with a smile.

"Oh my god. It would be adorable if it wasn't so sick." A woman – a vaguely familiar one – breaks in on our conversation. Unfolding her arms, she takes a few steps towards us.

"What?" we both ask.

"The two of you having father-daughter bonding over A DEAD BODY! Do you have any idea how insensitive that is?" I think about this for a moment. I should feel sad, but I can't really summon any emotion. After all, I didn't know this woman before she died.

Sherlock shrugs. "She's dead, so I doubt that she could have an opinion on the subject." Then he turns to me. "Lucy, this is Sergeant Sally Donovan."

A memory surfaces, one of comforting arms and a caring face. Somehow I can't associate the face in front of me with the woman who comforted me when I was at my lowest. I look at her, and I know that she recognizes me too. I don't really know what to say – thank you? Or maybe I should be angry with her for being rude to Sherlock? I don't know. So, I say the first thing that comes into my head. "If you don't like dead bodies, then you should find yourself a new job." Sergeant Donovan looks hurt for a moment, and I feel bad, but I can't take it back.

Sherlock has already separated himself from the conversation, and is analyzing the body more closely.

"What can you tell me about the victim?" he asks. I crouch down to try and get a better look at the body on the ground.

"Um. Scholar at the Royal Veterinary College, two cats _and _a dog, engaged, and, uh, lots of spots, probably because she eats a lot of chocolate."

Sherlock regards me carefully, with a smile forming on the edge of her lips "Good. You're getting better. Anything else?"

I crouch down closer, observing her face. Then I spy the makeup on her face. It's a lot of makeup, more than you would have if you were just going out. And I also notice the fact that her hands have quite a few paper cuts, so she read and/or studied a lot, so she probably wouldn't be the sort of person who went out a lot.

"She was on a date. Or, at least, she thought she was on a date." I say, smiling. Sherlock smiles back. "Right again." Then, he picks up her phone, and scrolls through her contacts, looking at her messages. He nods to himself, as though he's pieced it all together. He looks at me, and we both know that we've found the answer. Sherlock turns to Lestrade –Greg- takes a deep breath, and begins his stream of deductions.

"This woman left her student dorm at around 5pm yesterday. She was off on a date with someone she'd met a week ago. Her lesbian roommate had a crush on her, and was hiding it. However, the roommate went berserk when she found out. She had been bottling her emotions, and when she found out, she was so heartbroken that she finally found the courage to she run and confess her love. She found the victim on the rooftop of a restaurant, alone. And before you ask me 'Which restaurant?' or 'Why was she alone?'" he continued, looking at Greg, who's mouth had (hilariously) fallen open "let me tell you that her date had stood her up, and that the restaurant was the Boundary in Boundary Street, not for from here. She was alone in a secluded area of the roof. The roommate tried to confess her love, but the victim rebuffed her, because she thought that the roommate was her date, who had stood her up. Yes, they were both lesbians." He added, seeing Greg's dumbfounded face. "Keep up. Anyway, they were rowing and it turned into a tussle. I can't tell who started it, but it ended with the victim getting thrown of the roof. The roommate, shocked at what she had done, dragged the victim's body here. I do not know where she went after that. You will need to find" (he checks the phone) "Janet Olsen." He looks at me. "Did you get all that before hand?" he asks.

"Mostly."

He smiles. "I had hoped you would. Now," he says, "do you want dinner?"

"Yes, please!"

"I know exactly the place."

And we both walk out of the house, leaving the whole of Scotland Yard speechless.

* * *

"Mmmmm." I say through a mouthful of spaghetti. "This is delicious. I can't believe you don't like eating."

We're at a restaurant called Angelo's. Sherlock and the owner seemed to know each other very well, and the owner –Angelo- said that we could have what ever we wanted for free!

Sherlock sighs. "Digestion slows my thinking down, and I keep forgetting to eat."

I grin a tomatoey grin. "I'll have to remind you, then."

"I probably won't pay any attention."

I chuckle softly. Then, mock solemnly, I put my hand on my heart, and say "I solemnly swear to take charge of food duties in the residence of 221B Baker Street, seeing as you won't do it yourself."

"Accepted." Sherlock replies, equally solemnly.

I pick up my napkin, and wipe my face. "Right. I am also going to take charge of feeding _you_, starting when we get back to Baker Street." _Baker Street._ I'm not yet ready to call it _home_.

Sherlock stares at me. "I doubt we have much to eat back there."

"Doesn't matter. I will make you a plate of the best toast you have ever tasted. And I will sit and watch you eat it, until every last crumb is gone."

He regards me warily.

"Seriously, you'll love it."

"If you say so."

I smile. "I do say so, Sherlock Holmes."

* * *

_**A/N: Hi. I apologize tremendously for this being so late, but this chapter took an age to write, and I only got back from my holiday two weeks ago. This is the longest chapter I've ever written, so at least that makes up for my absence somewhat. :p The next one will (hopefully) come quicker. As ever, please review, follow and favorite. Thank you for reading, and I will see you for the next chapter!**_


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